Seven Devils
by fearest
Summary: A short imagine about the Season 10 Finale.


Dean felt as though he'd been here before. The wet pavement was cold beneath his dark jeans, and up, up, up above the buildings that shadowed the alley, a sliver of the full moon peeked out past the passing storm clouds. The First Blade was clutched in his grasp, but he knew there was no fight left. He had won. This time, above all other times, he had no doubt about that.

He felt it lodged beneath his rib cage.

He wanted to look down, see the mortal wound that he had inflicted on himself, but more than that, he wanted to see his eyes. He wanted to see his green eyes stare back at him one last time, to make _sure_ that it was over. A year had passed in the shadow of his demon self, trapped in his mind, feeling bones snap and hearing helpless cries - the cries of those he used to help.

But it was better like this. He had wrested back control for one split second, and he had made it count. The blade had sliced through muscle, grated against bone, then thudded to a sickened halt at his sternum.

There was the taste of iron in his mouth and he felt a rattle in his lungs, but he didn't feel afraid anymore. Not like when he'd seen Sam last year, when he thought he could finally die in peace. Not like when he'd felt the hellhounds start into him, ripping and tearing. Because Dean held with him the conviction that, despite all he had done, he could still get into heaven.

Slowly, his hand fell from the blade's hilt, landing in a puddle beside him. He hadn't wanted to let go, but he was starting to lose feeling in his extremities. His head lolled over to look at his hand, as if daring it to move, but it didn't. It was just him and the blade, and the rattle of blood in his lungs.

Shakily, he rolled his head back again so his eyes could fix themselves on the glowing point in the sky. The clouds had drifted away now; the moon was clear above him.

No, it was better this way. He deserved to go alone. He deserved the alley, the wet, the pain.

Then, from the end of the alley, he heard a splash. A loud splash. Not a rat, but a foot. Then another, and another.

As if from the bottom of a well, he heard someone's voice. At first, it was an unintelligible mess. Consonants ran together, and Dean doubted there was even a vowel in there, but then, from the watery depths, a clear word came out:

"_Dean_!"

Oh, no. No. _No_. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He was supposed to fade away. He was supposed to disappear into the dark, empty and alone, because that was how it worked for people like him.

But then it came again. "Dean! Oh, God, Dean, stay with me. Look at me. _Look at me_, Dean!"_  
_

It was too insistent; Dean had to turn his head. It didn't work right, though - his eyes focused on the ground next to his hand, unable to shift his neck further. Large hands came up to right him, cupping the side of his head and turning it a little. But Dean had known who it was from the moment he'd seen the feet next to him.

His stubborn, snot-nosed little brother. Sam couldn't have just let him die, because Dean never had, and as much as they were polar opposites, in some ways, they were exactly the same.

Dean wanted to shake his head, but Sam's hand held him steady. It were the only thing left now; his chest was numb. He couldn't feel his lungs. He couldn't feel the blade. He couldn't feel Sam's other hand pressing against the wound to stop the bleeding. He couldn't even feel the wet beneath his lashes, trickling down the sides of his face, distorting his vision.

"No, Sammy," he tried to say. The words came out in puffs of air, but he thought that Sam understood, because abruptly, his other hand came up and pulled Dean to his chest.

Dean's eyes focused on the brown brick wall in front of him, feeling his brother's silent sobs shake his body. Faintly, he heard him say, "Goddammit, Dean. Stop— Stop being a hero."

"No … chick …" Dean breathed, but he couldn't finish his sentence. His lungs weren't working right anymore. Why was that? He couldn't remember. There wasn't enough air anymore.

He felt Sam shaking his head, and suddenly, there was a trickle of wet against his neck. He didn't know why he could feel it and not his lips, but he did.

Dean shut his eyes for a long moment, then, summoning all of his energy, he forced his arm upwards, taking his brother's hand in his. And suddenly, it was as though he couldn't let go, his fingers clamped dangerously tight around Sam's.

"Don't … cry." Dean's words were slurred, as soft as angel feathers, but he knew Sam heard because the pressure on his hand was returned, even as his grip slackened. "It'll … be … okay."

He felt he could hear Sam's voice in his head, yelling at him that it wasn't okay, that he wasn't fine, that nothing could ever fix this, nothing ever would, but that wasn't what came out of Sam's mouth.

"I love you, Dean," he said. His words were loud and clear, and Dean knew they were the last words he'd ever hear. Because as much as he wanted to say the same, he couldn't move his lips anymore. In fact, he could barely see. The bricks closed in around him until there was just him and the darkness.

No, that wasn't quite right.

Him, the darkness, and Sam.

And then, there was nothing.


End file.
